Bald after Promotion by GermanCut

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"We are going to have the greatest success in our club's history since the 1960s!" said our coach and spread his arms pathetically. Our boys listened to his speech with expectation. His words wanted to motivate them, but they didn't really touch their hearts.
Three wins were only necessary to get promoted to the higher German football league. It was too good to be true. Despite the euphoria that had inspired the players from the beginning of this season, a certain despondency took place now.

"Since the 60s!" our coach repeated, but he saw only few enthusiastic faces, including mine: Michael, called "Michi" by everyone, 52 years old. I used to be a football player myself in our club, but since a couple of years I had been responsible for the players' equipment as a kitman and took care of the public relations work of our club.
When I heard our coach’s speech, I thought that he might need a little tutoring in public relations himself. What could the glorious history of our club, once upon a time, have meant to our players? 60 years ago, not even their parents were born! They needed a different kind of incentive.

"Gerd, I have an idea!" I said to our coach, who was sitting next to me. "Let me do it!"

I turned to our boys: "Yes, our history is impressive. Or rather: it was. But today we are in the process of making history ourselves!" (For heaven's sake! That sounded just as pathetic as Gerd. I had to change the tone of the speech quickly!)
"We will set an example with our promotion!" I continued. "And, dear Gerd, you will set a special example! I see your wonderful hair right now..." Some players laughed. I spoke louder: "So let me propose: If we win the last games and get promoted to the higher league, then you will sacrifice your hair. You will get your head shaved by us on the same day. We will enter club history as the team that achieved promotion, and you will enter it as our bald coach!"
The team cheered. "Does it mean you agree?" I asked the group. The boys whistled and shouted "Yes!"

"Well, thank you, Michael..." Gerd murmurs to me with light anger. "You're welcome!" I replied. "You can really thank me! The people from the newspaper will pounce on us and take pictures. Your bald head will be the symbol of our victory, believe me!"

The next two games ended with unspectacular victories for our team. But we were still under pressure. We absolutely needed to win the last match, too.

I was sitting next to Gerd on the pitch that day. We had a bit of an odd couple. Gerd was tall and well trained; he wore his blue track jacket (blue is the colour of our club) and track pants. His thick blond hair was short at the neck and at the sides and combed into a side parting on the top. Compared to him, I seemed less serious: I wore football shorts, white socks and a blue track jacket under which a golden chain peeped. Since I stopped playing football, I had grown a little fatter, but my muscles were still strong, and my thighs and calves still showed my football past. A thick dark brown full beard adorned my face. I had longer wavy hair, which I had combed back with some hair gel.

The first half had ended with a 1-1 draw. It was no wonder we were nervous going into the second half.

Although I was jittery myself, I tried to distract Gerd a little, because I saw beads of sweat on his forehead.
"Well, Gerd, why are you sweating so much? Because you fear that we will lose or because you fear that we will win?"
"Michi, you asshole!" Gerd began. (He'd called me an "asshole," so my try to distract him was successful.) "I have to admit that I wouldn’t be too happy if we would win."
"Yes, but our boys will be happy. And that is important! Our players can already hear in their minds the clippers humming and want to shave a smooth bald head. I’m sure you'll have fun too! Have you ever had your head shaved before?"
"Not yet. But thanks to you, that will probably change today…" Gerd said with the corners of his mouth pulled down.

I didn't say anything more about his upcoming head shave. The game also became particularly exciting during the last minutes. We almost conceded a goal from the other team.
Don't lose your nerve now!
Thank goodness our team kept a cool head.
Five minutes before the end, our forward crossed the ball into the opponent's goal. 2:1! We had made it!
The cheers of the spectators were incredible. I hugged Gerd, who had tears in his eyes. We screamed and laughed with joy. But we got a grip on ourselves and got through the last minutes.
Final whistle. Even greater jubilation. To the chants of our fans, we all stormed onto the pitch. Our "club anthem" sounded: a hit from the 80s, to which our fans sang different lyrics.
Completely overwhelmed by the victory, we went to our locker room.

I dragged a few crates of beer into the midst of our players, who were lying in each other's arms and could hardly utter a word for joy except bawling.
"So, guys! I usually don't like to see any of you smoking but today is an exception! Help yourselves, please!" said Gerd and opened a box of Cuban cigars.
Slowly peace returned. We sat down on the benches with cigars and beer.
"Unbelievable..." someone said. "We really set an example..."
"Speaking of examples!" shouted another, letting his gaze glide with a broad grin to his raised hand, in which he held a clipper.
"Now it's your turn, coach! We want you to become a shining example!"
A chair was provided for Gerd, on which he sat down after hesitating as if it were explosive. He took off his track jacket and T-shirt. To the cheers of the team, the machine ran immediately over his head, leaving a white bald stripe in the middle. To the rhythmic clapping of the team, the machine continued its work by passing from hand to hand. Every player wanted to shave at least one strip off the coach's head.

Gerd didn't really look happy with all this. He tried to grin every now and then, but it disappeared quickly every time.

"Gerd, you look great!" I shouted. "You remind me of someone!" I lifted a football, as white and smooth as Gerd's head.
"Let's compare them!" said one of the boys, stroking the ball and then Gerd's head. "No, the ball is smoother!"
"But not for long!" someone shouted from the door. He brought a bucket of water, shaving cream and two razor blades.
"No!" cried Gerd.
"Oh, come!" I said in a soothing tone. "You're already bald. But it’s not a real bald head yet, because a bald head normally is clean-shaven. That's how it should be! And it grows back quickly, I swear!"
Gerd's head was lathered by several hands. Then the blades were used. Strip by strip, his scalp became visible. It was almost as white as the foam.

Gerd, whom I had secretly called "pretty boy", looked totally hot, I noticed. He seemed much more masculine, more decisive. His chin and his laugh lines stood out of his face. Yes, hard to believe: Gerd laughed! Did he have fun after all?

"So, guys, thank you! You are a great team, and you deserve everything that has happened today and will happen!" (Oh Gerd, you're getting pathetic again!) "But thanks also to the person who gave you the idea that my head now appears like a football. Thank you, Michi!"
I bowed, although I found Gerd's words a bit strange.
"I would like to thank you, dear Michi, in a very special way. But I can't do it alone", he continued with a wicked tone in his voice, then he paused for a moment and snapped his fingers.

Four of the players pounced on me. They grabbed me by the arms and legs; another took off my tracksuit jacket and T-shirt. They carried me to the chair, still holding me even though I had stopped resisting.

As soon as I felt their strong hands on my biceps and calves, I knew what I had to expect. I had resisted because I was expected to resist. But the truth was, I had hoped that Gerd would not be the only bald man of the day, because secretly I had always wished for something like that: to be grabbed by several men and shaved bald without mercy.

The machine hummed over my head. My hair got sacrificed in clumps by the clippers: much more than Gerd's. The guys were quick and thorough. When the machine could no longer grasp a single hair, I said: "You won't get my skull smooth with the clippers alone! Where's the polish?"
My head was lathered and shaved so thoroughly that I felt no resistance anymore when the hands of all the boys finally stroked my head. I closed my eyes and sighed with exaggeration to hide that I was horny.
"Now give me a beer, please!" I shouted in a deep strong voice. A bottle of beer was opened, then a second and a third and emptied over my bald head. The beer ran unhindered over my face and dripped from my beard to my chest.
But the boys didn’t stop pouring beer over me. I couldn’t speak, instead I made the sound of a walrus.
Our forward, who had scored the decisive goal, said: "Let me try your beer!" He bent over me and licked my bald head with his tongue.
Unbelievable!

In the moment, I’m looking at an old newspaper photo: Gerd and I with our freshly shaved heads. How white the scalp stands out against our faces!
"Coach Gerd M. and kit attendant Michael K. fulfilled their promises and now present their shiny bald heads after winning the game", I read in the article with the headline "Bald heads for promotion" and run my hand slowly over my head.

Gerd has let his hair grow back. But not me. Since that day four years ago, I've been shaving my head almost every day. No tan line has been seen any more, because my bare scull is kissed by the sun every day.
And with every shave, the memory comes back: How the boys grabbed me and shaved my head without mercy, and how I finally sat in the middle of my team: wet and shaved to the bone. A secret wish came true.

If I were another person, I would envy my memories.

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